The Song of Silence
by Kate September
Summary: A life of 'sound and fury, signifying nothing' is shattered by a deafening silence. A moment of compassion brings the Phantom to the edge of something terrifying...a life lived in love. EOW
1. The Wire

Upon reflection, he decided that he really should have followed his first instinct and strangled her.

It would have saved him a world of trouble.

But the thought of Christine had stayed his hand. Christine would pity this poor creature. She would be proud of him, of the compassion –albeit unwilling- that he showed the shivering huddle of rags.

The raucous rehearsals for Hannibal had gone late into the night, and abandoning them in disgust, he had retreated to the sanctuary of his lair. Schemes and stratagems rolled through his mind like a relentless wave, infusing every step, every movement with impatient purpose.

But his step had been halted by the smallest of sounds. It wasn't the scrabbling of a rat. No, that he knew well was quicker and more frantic. This was a distinctly human sound.

With a silent swish of his cloak, he had slipped through the passages, the soft leather of his boot soles making only the lightest disturbance in the dust. He followed the sound to the outer reaches of his kingdom – one of the passages he knew well…too well.

It was the very passage that opened into the portal where La Giry had brought him all those years ago, divorcing him from one life of agony and marrying him to another.

And, it would seem, that another wretch had found that same portal and used it for refuge. He remained motionless in the shadows, watching the figure crawl on its hands and knees to the far wall, then collapse against its cold support. He heard harsh gasps for breath that made his own lungs itch and burn.

He studied the figure for a moment, weighing its attributes and potential threats. It was small. Dirty. Ragged. The length of the matted hair indicated it was a girl, though any curves were lost in the shapeless fabric that covered the body. She moved, and he saw that there was a face marked by bruises, with a long scar down one cheek. His eye twitched involuntarily when he saw that.

The girl gasped again and clutched at her ribs, revealing grubby little hands.

It was a moment poised on a wire. To fall one way would be to end the suffering of such a miserable creature. To fall another would be to risk too much for the sake of a humanity that had forsaken him. But Christine had not forsaken him. And she would have pitied and comforted the girl.

Gritting his teeth in frustration and hating himself, he stepped forward, revealing his presence in a towering, ominous silhouette of darkness. He had the satisfaction of seeing the girl's head jerk up, and her eyes – a strange kind of ocean grey – widen in fear.

"What are you doing here?" he growled, enjoying the sound of his voice echoing and bouncing, distorted and engorged by the chamber.

The girl looked up at him and clasped her hands together in a gesture of pleading.

"Answer me!" he thundered, relishing the booming noise.

It was a good thing he was shrouded in darkness, for it hid the utter shock that spread over his face when the girl clasped her hands around her throat then turned them out to him in a beseeching manner.

She could not speak.

He thought very hard for a moment, then decided that it was definitely an advantage.

"Follow me," he said gruffly, then turned and disappeared down the passage, making sure he moved slowly enough that the girl, still clutching at her ribs and now limping, could see him up ahead.

A silent girl could tell no secrets.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, I'm back again. And this is a fic that has been kicking around in my head for weeks. So, I must submit to it and submit it. Enjoy! Kate**


	2. Tit for Tat

The clumsy scraping of her feet dragging along the stones of the passage grated on his ears, his unfailing instinct for survival and concealment railing at this affront to elusiveness. But he could hardly reprimand the girl – after all, she seemed but half-conscious and the words would be wasted on her. And he was never one to waste words.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity to him, they reached his dwelling space. He glanced back to see her reaction, feeling a strange twinge of fear at bringing another living being into this place that had only ever know his dream companions and wax dolls for company.

She seemed bewildered but unfazed, as if it was all part of some pain-induced delirium. He saw her grey eyes dart around restlessly, as if unable to focus on any one detail. Indeed, he admitted to himself that the elaborate candelabras, the curtained alcoves, the shadows, the mist…all the elements created more of a stage setting than an abode.

"Come," he said quietly, gesturing for her to follow him deeper into his lair.

The girl hesitated for a moment, and he took the hesitation for fear.

"I will not harm you," he said gruffly. He then raised his eyebrows in surprise as she shook her head as if to say she did not fear him. She pressed one hand against her forehead then waved it back and forth in front of her face. Comprehension dawned in him, and he stepped over to her, gently grasping her elbow to steady her.

For the first moment, he didn't think anything of the fact he was touching her.

Not until she took a step did he realize that for the first time in twenty years, he had made contact with the flesh and blood of another human being. It took all his discipline to simply swallow the gasp that might have escaped his lips.

The girl allowed herself to lean more heavily into him, and he could feel the trembling of her body as her legs wobbled beneath her. Praying that she could not hear the hammering of his heart, he slipped a firm hand around her waist to support her without touching those ribs that seemed so painful and helped her over to the chair in front of his desk. The girl sank gratefully down into it. And before he could turn from her, she gave him by far the greatest surprise of the night.

She took both his hands in her own and pressed her cheek to them, her eyes brimming with tears of pain and gratitude.

Hurriedly, as if she was a flame that burned him, he withdrew his hands and took a step back from her. The expression of confusion on her face discomfited him, and he hated himself for revealing a moment of weakness.

Quickly, he turned from her to hide his troubled thoughts. They were too jumbled, confused, enraged and scared to sort out into neat rows of logic. Instead, he focused on fetching her a cup of water and placing it into her hands without so much as brushing her fingers.

The girl took the cup from him and raised it to her lips. Her tense expression puzzled him until he saw that she had difficulty swallowing. What's more, he noticed that the water that dribbled out of the corners of her lips was tinted red. She caught his gaze with hers, and instantly brought a hand to cover her mouth.

"What has happened to you?" he asked softly, making no move towards her.

Tears sprung to her eyes, and her face crumpled like a grieving child's. His long-dead heart missed a beat.

"Were you born mute?" he asked, unable to resist taking a step closer to her.

The girl shook her head, a silent sob shaking her shoulders.

A pang of shock went through his frame as he guessed at the act that had rendered her speechless. Steeling himself, he reached out a black leather gloved-hand and took her chin, while moving aside her hand with the other one.

"Let me see," he commanded gently.

The girl shook her head vehemently.

"Let me see," he repeated a little more sternly.

The girl's eyes narrowed at him in a glare, coming to rest with vindictive purpose on his mask, then deliberately moving to hold his gaze. Abruptly, he released her chin.

Apparently, they both had something to hide.


	3. Soup and a Scheme

Soup was the antithesis of a phantasmagorical existence. But he had realized that soup was the only thing the girl would be able to eat for a while.

Carefully carrying the covered bowl of steaming beef broth through the passages, he wondered if she'd still be sleeping when he returned. Just as he convinced himself she'd be lost in dreamless slumber, he doubted, thinking of the pain she must be enduring.

It wasn't like him to think of anyone else's pain. His own had been enormous enough to engulf his every thought and feeling for…oh…all his life. Except for Christine, of course. But how could one not respond to the pain in that child's angelic voice, pleading for some sign from her dear dead papa?

He steadied the hands that held the bowl and firmly dismissed Christine from his mind for the present. It wouldn't do to spill the soup and have to make a second, dangerous and degrading trip back to the kitchens.

As he approached his home – and he used the term loosely – he ran over in his mind everything that had happened since he had reached an unwitting and unwilling understanding with the girl that their secrets were their own and not to be shared.

He had bidden her to stay put while he moved about the place. He was sure his movements had seemed graceful enough, but he could tell the difference. It was as if each joint was stiff, creaking like old hinges. Confusion, embarrassment and an underlying fear made his fingers thick and clumsy. But somehow, he had managed to draw a bath for the girl in the small bathing chamber to the back of his lair, laying out a loose nightshirt for her to wear. It was one of his, actually. He had stolen it on a whim from the laundry room, thinking it would add one more element of suave civility to his absurd existence. But he had never worn it. What was the point when he fell asleep and woke up either at his desk or his organ?

The girl had accepted his aid in moving toward the bathing room, then given him a crisp nod as if to indicate she could handle the rest without him. He had been momentarily mortified, thinking that he would be suddenly called upon to aid in the undressing and washing of a woman – a nude woman, naked, absolutely bare…but…but…thankfully, he had been spared.

Suave he might be, he grimly thought to himself, but secure he was not.

As he went down the steps into his abode, he caught sight of the little figure curled up under the thick pile of blankets on the swan bed. It was to be Christine's bed, really. But she wasn't here…yet. And at least the girl was clean.

He saw the straw-colored top of her head peeking out, but by the rise and fall of the blankets knew she still slept soundly.

Silently, he approached her and carefully set the bowl down on a low trunk next to the bed. He paused for a moment, as if debating with himself, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

The girl stirred then stilled, as if clinging to sleep.

"Wake up," he said, making his voice as soothing and smooth as he knew how. "You need to eat."

The girl's eyes fluttered open and darted about for a moment as if in confusion. Then, as she seemed to realize where she was, she drew in a long breath and sat up.

_Not a lady_, was his first thought when he saw how she failed to hold the sheet up to her chin to cover herself as was proper. _This one is poor_.

"I brought you soup," he said.

The girl's eyes flicked to the covered bowl he indicated, then back to him. He didn't know what to make of the expression in them. It was weary and worldly, but it was thoughtful, as if cruel circumstance had not completely milked human kindness from her yet.

Her eyes settled on his mask again, and he felt a burning, tingling shiver of panic in his throat that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. But she made no move to touch the mask – luckily for her, or she'd have been dead in less time that it would take for the soup to cool.

Steeling himself, he brazenly studied her back. Bruises swelled and distorted her face, ringing her eyes and discoloring her cheeks. That long, thin scar on her cheek that he had first noticed was old – a testament to a hard-lived life, he guessed. She was tow-headed and pale and far too thin.

Just as he was losing himself in memorizing the minutiae of the shape of her nose and curve of her lips, he noticed she was looking at him intently with a small smile. Once she had his attention, she turned and looked meaningfully at the bowl of soup.

Quickly, he picked up the bowl and brought it to her, producing a spoon from the capacious pockets of his cloak. He removed the lid of the bowl and noticed how she inhaled deeply of the aroma that rose up in steamy plumes.

_Hungry for longer than one night_, he surmised. She raised her hands as if to take the bowl, and for a moment, he thought he'd hand it to her. But that would mean he'd have no reason to sit there any more. Without examining why he suddenly had developed this strange taste for company, he took the spoon, dipped it in the soup and brought it, brimming, to her lips.

The girl looked uncomfortable for a moment, and he watched intently as hunger got the best of her struggle. She opened her lips just enough to take in the liquid.

Suddenly, she choked, her face turning red as she tried to clear her airways, coughing hard enough so that her small body shook. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes as she recovered and looked longing at the soup.

He understood, and with understanding came a measure of a sentiment he had only ever reserved for himself and, of course, Christine – pity.

"How long since they cut out your tongue?" he asked quietly, rendering his voice soothing, conveying tones of safety and comfort.

A hard, angry look crossed the girl's piquant little face. She held up her hands to show all her fingers.

"Ten days?" he asked and saw the girl nod. He thought for a few moments, then brought a spoon of broth again to the girl's lips. "Take a much smaller sip this time," he said.

The girl sighed but obeyed and managed to get the nourishing soup down her throat. He repeated the procedure until they were engaged in a steady rhythm that was slowly replenishing the girl's famished frame.

He found as he watched her that he was beginning to have many questions about her. What was her name? Why did she not act scared of him like everyone else? What had she done to deserve such a punishment? Did she have any family who could care for her?

When finally the bowl was empty, he put it down and stood up. Again, she caught him by surprise by reaching out and taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek – a gesture he now was sure was one of gratitude.

"You are welcome," he replied softly, a small smile tugging at his lips without realizing it. "Rest now," he added. "I shall not be far."

Indeed, he'd be spending the rest of the morning sitting at his desk composing letters – for Lefevre, La Giry and Carlotta. Lefevre's retirement was to be announced in the next day or so, and he wanted to be ready.

He saw the girl nestle herself down among the covers again, and he watched in fascination as her body slackened as exhausted sleep once more claimed her. It occurred to him that he'd have to do something about her soon, and he found the thought…unsettling.

La Giry would help him – that would be a separate note he would write and deliver to her later that evening. The girl couldn't stay there indefinitely. Christine was coming, and this was to be her home…unless…

A brilliant thought struck him, and he smiled in sardonic appreciation of his own cleverness. His beloved Christine would spend her days in music and her nights in love. And for all the things that could intrude on such an idyll – laundering, cleaning, cooking, tidying – he had found the perfect resolution.

A small, silent servant girl – the very best kind.

It was indeed an excellent plan.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers - Mrs. Gerard Butler, Scratching of My Quill, and Emmanuelle Liselle Grey. I appreciate your feedback and encouragement tremendously!**

**Kate**


	4. Punctuated by Peace

It was odd that something he had shunned for so long could be so comforting. He found that though the girl slept most of the time, waking only when he summoned her to eat, it was…pleasant to just hear another living creature breathing in his home.

Taking care of the girl mercifully occupied his time and kept him from brooding more than usual. Lefevre was taking his time in announcing his retirement – damn him! – as the paperwork for the sale apparently was still being vetted by the new owners' solicitors. But having to worry about procuring food for the girl, and then worrying about how much she ate provided him with enough of a distraction to keep his foul mood at bay.

By the end of the second day, the girl was much stronger. She had graduated from being spoon-fed to taking the spoon herself while he held the bowl for her. And always, after every meal, she would take his hand and press it to her cheek.

He had learned not to flinch at the touch, and even found himself looking forward to it. After all, if he was to submit to the caresses of Christine's love, he would need to learn to endure human contact.

But this little interlude of peace and routine did not last long. Lefevre finally announced his retirement, and he had been able to put his plan into action.

That night, he took especial care in dressing. He was in the little alcove that served as his occasional bedroom – with a rumpled, long-unused bed and a tall armoire that held his garments.

He was fussing with his cravat when he heard the sound. A small rustling – like that of a cotton nightshirt, he guessed. Turning around, he saw the girl, leaning against the side of the armoire, arms crossed, with an amused smile on her face.

"What?" he demanded irritably, his fingers inexplicably getting tangled with the cravat.

The girl quirked an eyebrow and smirked.

"It is of no concern to you," he said, guessing what her expression meant.

Her smirk widened into a grin – though he noticed she kept her lips closed. She stepped over to him and batted his hands away from his cravat.

"What are you -?" he started to ask, only to be silenced by her finger against his lips. He watched in a puzzled fascination as she deftly tied his cravat perfectly. He saw her expression fade from amused to almost sad and nostalgic. She shook off her reverie and patted the cravat into place.

"Thank you," he said, the unfamiliar words sounding strange said in his voice. The girl nodded, then stepped back and helped him with his waistcoat, overcoat and cloak. He looked over at her as he tied the cloak and saw that she was smiling at him. He felt his lips twitch slightly in that most unused of gestures for him.

Then the girl pressed the back of her hand against her forehead and pretended to swoon, executing a lopsided pirouette and collapsing onto his bed. She raised herself on her elbows and smirked at him.

"Piss off," he said, though he found his lips stretching even further into a smile.

She rolled her eyes and sat upright. Something about the way her eyes looked in the candlelight reminded him of one last item of business to be taken care of before he attended the performance.

"You will remain here, in that bed, until I come to you and say you may rise," he said. The alcove was hidden enough that Christine would never know the girl was there until he chose to reveal her.

The girl cocked her head to one side and gave him an inquisitive look.

"You'll do it, or find yourself out on the streets again," he said severely.

The girl's expression turned sullen, but to his relief, she nodded.

"And be quiet," he added as he turned and walked away, wondering how she would take his attempt at humor.

The thudding sound of a book being thrown against the wall gave him his answer.

But it didn't really matter. Soon, he'd be with Christine.

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**A/N: Sorry it's so short, but I wanted to get something up for y'all. I'm still deciding whether I should follow movie-verse and write around it, or go in a slightly different direction...votes? feedback? **

**And again, a huge thank you to all my reviewers - you're the ones who keep me going!**

**Kate September**


	5. A Rose by Any Other Name

He stormed back to his lair – and at that moment, it was a lair and not a home. A phrase he remembered reading from Shakespeare came to mind to describe the way he felt at that moment, "hard, stockish and full of rage."

Damn that pretty boy! Who knew he would break down the door to the dressing room and rush in, thinking his childhood sweetheart was in danger. Damn! Christine had swooned into the boy's arms, and he, like the ghost he was, had watched as love blossomed between the two of them. Oh, Christine still spoke reverently of her angel, but now, she would never speak lovingly of the man who nurtured her God-given gift of music.

He threw his cape aside and struck out in blind rage, knocking over candelabras, kicking stools and sweeping books and papers from his tables onto the floor. He slammed his fists into the keys of the organ, pounding it over and over, relishing in the way the discordant noise shouted out what he could not.

He raised his head and howled, his voice rough and raw from his pain. Christine's lips had touched another man's lips, not his. Her hands had clung to the boy's collar, brushing the skin of his neck with her fingertips. His own skin burned in the same place. No one knew what is cost him in courage to attempt to reveal himself to his adored girl. And now, all that effort, all those years, all the hope…all for nothing.

His shoulders shook, but he refused to let the tears fall. He was doomed to be alone. Damn!

He looked up from the abused keys of his organ, glancing around at the mess he had created. His eyes went wide as he was taken by surprise by what he had forgotten.

The girl was there, silently starting to pick up the books and scattered papers. She caught his gaze and looked at him levelly. He felt his heart sink into his stomach. She had heard his anguish, witnessed his pain. He had inadvertently revealed his weakness to her. For a long moment, they both remained still, her gaze calmly measuring his tortured one.

"You disobeyed me," he said finally, grasping at the only straw of dignity that remained to him.

To his utter shock, the girl simply rolled her eyes and shrugged.

"I gave you an order, and I expect to be obeyed," he thundered, both relieved and ashamed at taking out his anger on something that could hurt as much as he did.

But the girl seemed unmoved by his wrath. In fact, she made a face at him and silently mouthed his words back to him with exaggerated mocking.

He jumped up and was before her in an instant. He felt tall and terrible, towering over her. And yet still, she refused to be frightened by him. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to throw her across the floor. But nothing prepared him for what happened next.

The girl's gaze softened into an expression of intense sympathy and sadness, and she took her hand and placed it over his heart. She then took her hand and placed it over her heart and nodded her head.

"You cannot possibly understand," he growled, trying to ignore the shivers that ran through his body from her touch, her proximity.

He watched in amazement as tears sprung to her eyes, and she nodded more vehemently. She then held up her hands and showed him all ten fingers.

"Your heart was broken 10 days ago?" he scoffed, taking the offensive with the offensive to keep his discomfort at bay. "What, your fellow urchin took up with another slut?"

He knew his words deserved a slap. He didn't expect her to crash her fist into his jaw. He staggered back from sheer surprise, but quickly lunged back at her and caught her to him, imprisoning her against him.

His heart felt tight and painful from the tumult of his emotions as he clasped the girl in his arms. She was shaking with silent sobs, but unlike him, her tears fell down her bruised cheeks. Her body seemed so fragile to him, and he felt a great wave of remorse roll through his soul.

"Hush," he whispered into the top of her head. "I am…sorry. I should not have said that."

The girl's frame shook harder, and he felt her nestle against him, as if expecting him to comfort her. What a preposterous presumption! He was the one with a broken heart, a broken dream, a broken life.

She lifted her face to him, and he looked into her pale eyes. And he realized…so was she. Ten days ago, she had her heart broken and her tongue cut out. The world was cruel, indeed.

The gesture was still strange and unfamiliar to him, but he held her tightly. He even dared to rest his good cheek against the top of her pale, blonde head. When her arms snaked out to wind around his neck, he thought his heart might stop beating.

Someone…someone was actually embracing _him_. Voluntarily.

He found himself crooning softly to her, a spontaneous lullaby, the song he had wanted to sing to Christine. The girl touched the red mark on his jaw where she had hit him, and he couldn't help but smile at the look of contrition in her eyes.

"What is your name?" he asked shakily, his fingers trembling as they stroked her hair.

An intense look of concentration crossed her face, then she took his hand and traced a few letters on his palm.

"Lily," he whispered, and the girl nodded.

"Lily," he repeated as she rested her head against his chest, as if to listen to the beat of his heart.

"Lily," he said one more time, and he found that he liked the sound of her name.

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**A/N: Well, I've decided to part from movie-verse. And don't get too comfortable thinking that things are going well for Lily and Erik. They may be, they may not be. You'll have to wait til the next chapter to find out for sure.**

**And once again, merci mille fois to all my reviewers. Your comments always make my day and encourage me to work on my next chapter.**

**Kate September**


	6. The Empress' New Clothes

Clothing the girl was proving to be a significant problem.

All the things he brought down from the costume room, the laundry, the various dressing rooms didn't seem to fit the fragile fairy in his home. But he couldn't continue to have her run around in his nightshirt, however long and dress-like it was on her thin frame. The nightshirt seemed to encourage his thoughtful glances at the girl's ankles and shoulders.

Since the night of his failed visit to Christine, he found that he and the girl – no, Lily, since now he knew her name – had settled into a kind of odd domesticity. She was still recovering her strength, but each day saw her doing more around his lair while he worked or fretted over how much she was or was not eating.

He didn't examine his feelings or motives too closely. It was like looking in the mirror for him – a torturous exercise that would only lead to unhappiness. He instinctively felt that perhaps there were times in life when one should simply be grateful and enjoy what happiness one is given.

And he did admit that it was a kind of happiness that he felt, especially when he would play on the organ, stormy composition sessions or bouts of beauty with old favorites. At some point, he would become aware of a quiet nestling next to him, and he'd feel Lily rest her head against his thigh as she sat on a cushion on the floor next to him, listening with closed eyes and a peaceful expression.

"Too big," he growled through gritted teeth, shaking his head in frustration. "Where is all the soup I am feeding you going? For it certainly hasn't put flesh on your bones!"

Lily rolled her eyes and shrugged, though she smiled at him. When had he become so talkative? And why did he feel the need to speak so much with a girl who could not answer? Well, she could answer. She just couldn't speak.

He watched as she wiggled uncomfortably in the oversized gown, trying to get it to fit. He almost laughed as she huffed and threw up her hands in despair.

Suddenly, he saw her expression change, as if she had just had an idea. He wasn't wrong.

Grinning, she gestured quickly, pointing to him, then herself, then upwards.

"Take you with me?" he scoffed, feeling a stab of fear. "No."

She put her hands on her hips and quirked her eyebrows – a move that he was coming to learn meant that she was settling in for the struggle.

"No, it is too…" he started to say, then hesitated. Dangerous? Yes. To him, it was dangerous. To his existence, his mystery. If she made a mistake, his exposure would result.

And then he wondered yet again, as he had in odd moments, why she hadn't questioned him about his strange existence under the opera house, why she hadn't questioned him about the mask. Indeed, when he spoke with her or felt her eyes on him, she seemed to act as if it wasn't there at all – so much so that sometimes, even he would forget.

Lily tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

"You are not well enough," he said, seizing on inspiration.

She responded with a look of utter sarcasm.

"Well you aren't," he said a bit more defensively than he meant to.

She shook her head and stamped her foot.

"No, and that is my final answer," he said severely.

Half an hour later, he was leading her upstairs to the costume room.

* * *

They snaked their way through the passages, and he was forced to admit that the girl could move as silently as he did. The observation lead him to wonder about her life before coming to the opera house. Was she trained as a pickpocket? No whore moved so quietly. Perhaps she had been part of a gang. Perhaps they had turned on her, but why?

These thoughts ran through his mind as he automatically followed the route that would bring them to the empty costume room. It was near midnight, so he felt relatively certain that no one would be in there.

They slipped inside like the pair of thieves they were. He turned the gaslight on low, just enough for them to see what they were doing, but not bright enough to spill much light through the cracks in the door.

Immediately, Lily dove into the racks of costumes, but to his dismay, not searching for sensible clothing. No, she zeroed in on every ridiculous headdress, cape and ballet costume she could find. She tried them on all together in the mirrors, grinning to herself with mischievous delight. He found that he couldn't help but laugh, well, _at_ her as she made herself look ridiculous in one of La Carlotta's get-ups.

Shaking his head, but still smiling, he went through the racks and picked out a pale blue gown and a pale yellow dress. He thought to himself that the colors would suit her quite well. But before he could have her try them on, there was a scuffling sound and hushed giggles outside the door.

It only took him a few heartbeats to turn out the light, grab Lily and the gowns, and clasp her to him in a hiding place sandwiched between closely-spaced clothing racks.

He noticed with relief that Lily was able to stand perfectly still and silent – she apparently even knew how to slow her breathing so that it made no sound.

The door opened and a couple spilled into the room. There was the sound of fumbling hands against layers of fabric, little sighs of desire, and the soft brushing of lips on skin.

He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip imperceptibly on Lily. Of all the situations, of all the damned…oh hell! He hoped she wouldn't feel the stirring of his body as the sounds of the enamored couple suggested unconscious images to him. But Lily didn't move. Her head rested quietly against his chest, her body soft against his.

He tensed as he felt her head jerk up at the sound of the other man's voice making a low moan. He looked down at her, and she glanced up at him, an expression of anguish on her face.

But before he could puzzle it through, he himself froze at the words that came next.

"Oh, Christine, I love you, I adore you, my darling!"

"Raoul, my love, my life!"

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**A/N: Ha! Bet you didn't see that one coming, LOL! Thank you as always to my reviewers. You are the reason I write these stories! Another chapter will be coming soon!**

**Kate September**


	7. Spiders and Webs

God was a mean son of a…that was his firm conviction as he stood there in the darkness, pressed in on all sides by racks of costumes, with a woman pressed more closely and intimately against him than any other creature had ever been. All this so that he could listen to the little sighs and moans of pleasure from Christine's throat as she and that wretched boy made love.

The supreme irony that would have fed him with sarcastic joy in this situation was dampened by the fact that he was incredibly embarrassed at his body's reactions. But how could he help it? Here he was, just feet away from the one true love of his life, listening to her in the throes of pleasure – a pleasure he had long dreamed of being the one to give her. And of all the people to witness, or feel as the wretched case might be, this humiliation, it had to be Lily.

He took a pinch of solace in the fact that her body seemed to tremble as well in his arms, though the tension he felt in her frame suggested that she trembled not from desire.

"What would your angel think of you now, Christine," Raoul chuckled, his voice sounding thick with heat and kisses.

"I don't think he would care," she whispered with a giggle. "He is concerned with my singing, not my kisses."

"No, those are definitely my concern."

He thought his head would explode with the heat of his rage. It was only Lily's reaction to the next words spoken that saved him from jumping out from the shadows and strangling them both then and there.

"Have you ever been in love, Raoul?"

"I am now, my darling, Christine."

"No, I mean before now. What about that pitiful little urchin girl you told me about? The one who used to follow you around and borrow your books?"

He heard Raoul laugh derisively. "The poor little thing _was_ besotted with me, I have to admit," he said, his tone full of amusement. "It was rather pathetic, too. That she should think I could ever love her – _her_! A common pickpocket, a street girl! No, my heart was always kept pure for Little Lotte."

If he hadn't had a firm grip on her, she would have given them both away. She jerked fiercely in his arms as he struggled to pin her to him and keep her still.

Mercifully, there came a sudden banging at the door and the blessed voice of Madame Giry announced exactly what was going to happen if Christine did not come out that very instant.

There was a hurried rustling of clothing and hushed laughter, then the sound of the door opening and closing. The instant he thought they were alone, he whisked Lily with him back through the secret panel and into his hidden passage.

There, he finally let go of her, and in the next instant wished he hadn't. Lily turned and slammed her fist into the wall with a force that made him wince. She pulled back her arm to do it again, but this time he caught her, pinning her to him and hushing her as she shook with rage and grief.

He needed to get them both back to his house by the lake, to think, to understand all that had just happened. Without further ceremony, he swept Lily up into his arms, absently marveling at how quickly he had gotten used to touching another human being, and took them at a quick pace back to his lair.

He placed Lily on his bed and quickly fetched a roll of gauze, returning to her side and taking her bruised and bloodied hand in his. He felt the strangest ache in his heart as he looked at her, seeing her unwavering, agonized, rage-filled gaze locked on the nothingness before her.

Gently, he wound the gauze around the abused knuckles of her little hand. He wanted to say something kind, something comforting to her, but no words would come to his agile mind. All he could think of were the cold, hard facts.

"The boy, Raoul," he said softly. "He was the one you loved?"

Almost mechanically, she turned to him, and he was again shocked by the depth of sorrow and betrayal in her clear, grey eyes. She nodded slowly, her little body shuddering.

"What happened?" he asked, almost more to himself. To his surprise, the girl gestured upwards. He frowned, trying to guess what she meant.

"He came here to the opera house?" he ventured and was relieved to see her nod.

She gestured for him to stand up, which he did, and she made him turn his back on her. He glanced over his shoulder back at her. She tapped herself and shook her head.

"It wasn't you," he interpreted, seeing Lily nod. He watched as she screwed her face up into an ugly expression, something he had seen in far too many men. She pretending to sneak up on him. Then, she broke character and became her self again. She threw herself between him and the imaginary assailant. She clutched at her throat with her hands then gestured outwards.

"Your gang was going to attack him," he said softly, finding that he had an unaccountable urge to wrap her in his arms, even though he held back. "You protected him, screaming to raise an alarm."

He watched as Lily's eyes filled with tears, and he spoke the final words of her terrible story. "And for that, they cut out your tongue."

He felt a spasm of rage, spun around and lashed out, knocking a tall bronze candelabra to the ground.

"What a wicked web!" he snorted, storming and pacing. "You betray evil men, only to find that Raoul has betrayed you with the one who…betrayed me," he growled.

His angry tirade was arrested when he turned and found her still standing where he had left her. She watched him with eyes that swam in tears, and he felt something break inside of him, some dam give way to a reservoir of need that he had denied for so long.

He crossed the floor to her with long, purposeful strides. In an instant, she was in his arms, and he was doing the unthinkable – covering her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks and her lips in feverish kisses.

"It is just us, Lily," he murmured raggedly. "Just us."

* * *

**A/N: Well, hope this satisfied people's curiosity of how the scene in the costume room was going to be resolved. However, we have not seen the last of Christine and Raoul! If you think you can guess what is going to happen, then just remember - I am evil. Really evil. "Wicked" evil, as we say here in Boston. And this particular chapter ending may not seem like a cliffie...but then again, remember...I am evil :)**

**Yours in mishcief,**

**Kate September**


	8. Borrowed Feathers

The kissing had been fleeting, frenzied, and in the end, fruitless. Her silent sobs and his own grief had risen up like a grim stone wall between them, dousing the fragile flame of his passion. A mortified silence fell on him as he looked down into Lily's confused eyes, and he felt bewildered himself.

He had just done something he had never imagined possible – he had kissed a woman. And even more incredible to him was that she had not shrunk back in terror or shied away. Then again, she didn't know what lay under his mask. But, he reasoned grimly, she probably had guessed there was a good reason for it. Still…for a few moments, her lips had been willing, and it would have been so easy to let his hands follow his mouth's example. But he hadn't, and she silently slipped away to her bedroom, leaving him in the darkness once again.

He realized, the next morning, as he adjusted his hated wig and mask, that it was a good thing that nothing else had happened – no matter what his tormented body had protested during the long, lonely night. Lily's heart was not yet healed from the wound that feckless boy had dealt it, and even he himself was not sure of his own feelings.

Drearily patting the mask into place, he silently reaffirmed for what seemed the thousandth time that it was Christine that he loved. He tried to summon the image of her – large and lovely before his eyes as she sang in the chapel for him. Yet the image was all too brief, almost _pro forma_. Instead, Lily's piquant little face shimmered into his vision, filling his thoughts with memories of her silliness, her strength and her silence.

He pulled the cuffs of his shirt out from the sleeves of his coat and made sure everything was in place and perfect before leaving his room.

A loud crashing sound told him that Lily was in the alcove that functioned as his meager kitchen, being equipped with only an old coal stove, a wooden table, and a collection of mismatched china and silverware – souvenirs of Carlotta's many tantrums in which many perfect sets of dishes were left without various pieces and had to be replaced with a newer and complete set.

"Lily!" he exclaimed, surveying the broken teapot lying in pieces on the ground.

She made an apologetic face and pointed to the hem of her gown. He remembered it was the one she had tried on yesterday before their disastrous expedition. It was a shade of evergreen and was far too large on her.

"You…tripped?" he asked, raising his good eyebrow.

Lily shrugged and sighed, then pointed to her teacup.

"You wanted tea," he said gently. "Why didn't you wake me?"

She snorted and put her hands on her hips.

"It would have been no trouble, Lily," he remonstrated, though he couldn't help smiling. "And, yes, I know that you can manage quite well yourself, my dear, but it is really my pleasure to do things like that for you."

There was an awkward moment of silence as the words he hadn't meant to say sunk in.

"Besides, it would have saved me the trouble of procuring a new teapot," he added hurriedly, praying that he was not blushing.

He watched her carefully, full of trepidation. But, to his amazement, she simply smiled her usual sunny, slightly-smirking grin and began to pick up the pieces of the pot.

"I…must go up for a bit today," he said hesitantly as he stooped over to help her. "If you think you can be as quiet as you were yesterday, you are welcome to join me."

He caught the look of amazement on the girl's face but avoided meeting her eyes.

"I know the days can be long…down here," he said quietly, standing up. "I thought another trip up above might…uh…cheer…or distract…uh…"

He was fast losing his train of thought because he had unwittingly caught Lily's clear gaze. There was something so terrifyingly lovely about the gentle look in her eyes that he felt he could not bear another moment of it.

Thankfully, Lily simply put down the shards of the pot on the table, reached up and patted his cheek in a most cheeky way and grinned.

He found himself smiling with relief and letting go of a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was all right. What had happened between them last night was just…just…an aberration between two broken hearts. They were compatriots in misery, that was all.

He noticed that Lily was looking at him again, this time a more thoughtful expression on her face, as if she was reading his mind and saw things differently.

"Come," he said curtly. "And for heaven's sake, try not to trip any more, or you'll give us away!"

Lily made a gesture the shocked him, choking him even as he tried not to laugh.

* * *

"No, and that is my final answer, Lily!" he said heatedly.

Lily stamped her foot, then hurried to catch up with him as he stalked through the passages back to his home on the lake.

"Are you mad?" he demanded, half-turning his head to look at her.

Lily's response was as precise as it was forceful. She smacked him on the arm with the back of her hand and gestured to him, a look of utter scorn on her face.

"Well, I do understand that my mode of living may appear a bit…eccentric," he conceded huffily. "But it is certainly no more mad than Carlotta with her puffball dog, perfume atomizers and room full of wigs!"

Lily canted her head to one side and set her jaw.

"We are not going to the masquerade ball, and that is final," he said as firmly as he could, praying it would be enough.

* * *

"I look ridiculous," he said glumly to his reflection.

Lily shook her head vigorously and clapped with delight.

"Red Death?" he scoffed. "Why can I not simply go as the Opera Ghost?"

Lily snorted disdainfully at such an obviously silly retort. She adjusted her own headdress and studied her reflection for a long moment in the mirror.

He watched her watching herself, and he found that she was unnervingly pretty in her costume of a peacock, with its brilliant blue silk skirts and peacock feathers on the low-cut bodice and mask. She hardly looked the ragged, beaten urchin he had rescued but a few weeks earlier.

He glanced at himself in the mirror and reflected that he was hardly himself either. A lifetime of carefully cultivated solitude had been pertly put aside by this silently charming interloper. She had disdained his mystique and treated him more like…like…a friend.

Then again, he thought ruefully to himself, with friends like her, who needed enemies to bring trouble?

"Why did you choose the peacock," he asked as he adjusted his cravat for the umpteenth time.

Lily looked thoughtful for a moment, as if she was puzzling something through. Then she swept over to his desk and took a lead pencil and piece of paper and wrote on it. She returned and handed it to him.

"_Piaf_?" he said, reading her rough handwriting and wrinkling his forehead. "What does a sparrow have to do with…"

He looked up and saw her grinning from beneath her peacock mask. And he laughed.

"Come," he said with a smile. "But I should warn you, I will not dance."

Lily tilted her head to the side and smiled complacently, making him hope he could remember what La Giry had taught him about waltzing.

* * *

**A/N: Again, thank you to all my reviewers! While this chapter may seem a bit more like the "Diet Coke of evil" than the other chapters, all I can say is that it is leading up to better, more evil things at the masquerade ball!**

**Yours in mischief,**

**Kate**


	9. Midnight Pumpkins

He found himself flirting, which astonished him both because of his ability to do so, and because of the attention that the ladies at the ball seemed to be lavishing upon him.

Lily seemed complacent and almost pleased at the female adoration he was receiving, and he wondered darkly if this wasn't part of some damned plan of hers. He had known her long enough to come to dread the schemes that percolated in that fertile brain of hers.

He noticed with a twinge of jealousy that she caught the eye of many of the young men at the gala. They fawned on her, puzzled and inexorably drawn to her by her silence. She smiled shyly and coyly at their attempts to draw her into conversation, simply wandering off when things were on the verge of becoming uncomfortable because of her inability to speak.

And yes, he had danced with her. But not just with her. Various young ladies, surprisingly bold, had dragged him to the dance floor. They had complimented him on the fine figure he cut in his costume and done their best to wheedle a name out of him. He, in turn, had used the only acceptable weapon for defense in this situation – charm.

With charm, he could easily deflect their questions. But charm had its consequences, namely that of separating him from Lily and marooning him in the center of a gaggle of young ladies.

In between witticisms, he directed his gaze around the foyer of the opera house, searching for Lily's slight figure, breathing a sigh of relief each time he found her.

"And what do you do for a living, oh mysterious monsieur?" asked a bubbly redhead, coyly shifting to accentuate her bosom for his gaze.

"I…am a composer," he replied with a sardonic smile, keeping his eyes on Lily.

"Oh! But _c'est magnifique_!" she exclaimed. "Have any of your works been performed?"

"Not yet," he replied absently. "But they will be, soon."

He didn't hear the woman's reply because his attention was arrested by the sight of Lily being approached by none other than Raoul. He strained to read the boy's lips, but the little fop turned so that it was impossible. He could see Lily's face, though, and her serene smile filled him with dread. He now understood something more of her plan and why she had wanted to come to the ball.

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I cannot help but think we have met before," said a sweet voice by his side.

He was speechless as he turned and looked down into the upturned face of his angel, Christine.

"No, we have not met," he replied curtly, thinking that strictly speaking, that was quite legitimate to say.

"But your voice is so familiar," Christine persisted, smiling, her eyes lighting up with delight. She placed her slender, elegant hand on his arm and stepped closer. He felt his heart had stopped beating, and utter panic seized up his throat. "Are you quite sure?"

He flicked a glance at Lily and Raoul, who had moved to join the waltz. Lily's eyes caught his, and he felt a shiver of apprehension at the utter coldness in them, visible even under her mask.

"Even if we have not formally met, I know that I have seen you somewhere," Christine laughed merrily. "But come, dance with me, and we shall introduce ourselves properly that way."

He was too stunned to do anything except nod and move with her into the dance. His head was spinning from the sensation of holding his angel in his arms, having her look up at him with an expression of pleasant expectation, having her smile at him. It was almost too much. He felt as if his heart would burst at any moment.

He struggled to find something to say, to sound normal, just like any other man.

"A pretty bagatelle you wear around your neck, mademoiselle," he said briefly, frowning at the ring on the chain around her neck.

"Oh," Christine exclaimed, blushing slightly and smiling. "It is my engagement ring."

The pain of holding himself back, of choking back the cry of rage and grief, was actually physical in its intensity. He would never forget that moment of innocent and utter betrayal, nor the agony that he felt.

"Then why do you not dance with your fiancé?" he asked, his voice harsher than he meant it to be.

"Oh, we have our whole lives to dance together," Christine laughed, seeming not to notice his change in demeanor. "Besides this is a masquerade ball. We're not supposed to know whom we dance with."

She smiled brightly up at him and added, "At least not until midnight, when we all take our masks off."

That was it. He could not bear any more. Abruptly, he let go of her and stormed off the dance floor. He needed to leave, to get away. It was but five minutes to midnight by the grand clock in the foyer. He could not risk staying. Where the hell was Lily?

Frantically, he looked around and saw that she, too, had left the dance floor, but with Raoul in tow. The boy looked more intrigued with her than was seemly for a man who was engaged.

"Monsieur?" Christine appeared at his side, slipping her arm through his and looking up at him appealingly. "Is something wrong? Did I offend you in some way?"

"Not at all, Christine," he replied absently, still fixated on the sight of Lily and Raoul and not realizing his mistake.

"You _do_ know me!" Christine exclaimed, tightening her grip on his arm. "I knew it!"

He looked down at her, panic filling him like water rushing into a sinking ship. Christine was studying him intensely, her full red lips pursed in a most distractingly beguiling way.

"Ev-everyone knows of the famous Christine Daae," he stammered, trying to make up for his mistake and gently trying to disengage her hands from his arm.

At the same time, he heard Firman's detestable voice, thick with drink and cigars, call out, "The stoke of midnight is upon us! Everyone take off your masks!"

Instinctively, he reached up and pressed his hand to his mask to keep it from being ripped off.

"I must go," he said roughly, yanking his arm away from Christine.

"I know you, now," she replied in a low voice. He looked at her in terror as she stepped close to him again. "You are my angel of music. I know your voice."

"You do not know what you are saying," he replied sharply.

"Yes, I do," she said stubbornly. "You are my angel come to earth! Why did you not come before, angel?"

"Leave me be," he demanded, striding over to Lily and forced to drag Christine with him, as she wouldn't let go of his coat sleeve.

"Why won't you tell me your name?" Raoul was saying as he took off his mask and smiled beguilingly at Lily. "Why won't you answer one of my questions?"

Standing with Christine still clinging to him, he watched in horror as Lily slowly removed her mask. In all the chaos, he felt a twinge of sympathetic pleasure at the revenge she was having. Raoul's face transformed into a mask of utter disbelief.

"Lily?" he exclaimed. "What…how…what are you doing here?"

Lily remained silent.

"Say something, Lily," Raoul said, taking her hands and kissing them. "Dear little Lily, don't be like this. We were always such good friends."

His panic turned to rage at the boy's words. How dare he! How could he possibly think that a few sweet words would make amends to a woman who had sacrificed everything for him.

"She can't say anything," he snapped, moving to stand next to Lily, wrapping his free arm around her waist. "They cut out her tongue the night you came to the opera because she tried to protect you."

Raoul's eyes went wide and flicked from Lily to him, and back to Lily.

"Is it true?" he whispered, his voice full of sudden pity.

Lily remained silent, her face a mask of stony anger and strange sorrow.

"Oh God!" Raoul cried out. "What fiends! Lily, come, you must come with me and allow me to make it up to you."

Lily remained stoically passive, giving Raoul one last, long stare, then turned to him and nodded.

He felt a wave of relief rush through him and made to turn and leave. But Christine still clung to his arm.

"You have not removed your mask, my angel," she said quietly.

"And I don't intend to," he replied coldly, pressing his hand against his mask a little harder.

"Lily?" Raoul said uncertainly. "Who is this man? Are you with him? You really should come back with me, little Lily."

Raoul reached out and took Lily's arm, trying to pull her away from his grasp. It was the last straw. His hand abandoned the mask and shot out to encircle the boy's throat. Lily shrank back against him, clawing at Raoul's hand to remove it from her arm.

And then, he felt cool air on his face and skull. Instinctively, he released Raoul and clamped his hand back over the ruined side of his face. He turned to Christine, who stood trembling, holding his wig and mask in her hands.

"Oh my God!" she whispered in a panicked tone. "What are you? You can't be an angel! You're from the Devil!" she added, crossing herself.

His breathing was ragged, and his mind felt curiously frozen, unable to even give his body the simple command to run away.

He watched with a detached kind of horrified fascination as Lily wriggled out of his grasp, snatched the wig and mask out of Christine's hands and dealt her a hard slap across her face.

Before anyone could react, Lily grabbed his arm and dragged him away, back into the shadowy alcoves that would lead to the deserted hallways that would bring them back home.

"Lily!" Raoul's voice was loud and urgent, and he turned back to see the boy trying to follow them. He couldn't seem to focus his mind on anything, least of all how to get away from the boy. To his utter surprise, Lily thrust the mask and wig back at him and drew the sword from the sheath at his side.

"Lily! What are you doing? Where are you going with that madman?" Raoul cried, his advance halted by the sharp blade held steadily to his chest.

He watched as Lily's eyes narrowed. She stood silent and still as stone, her pale blonde hair seeming to glow in the darkness.

"Lily, come back with me," Raoul said gently. "I will take care of you."

It was only his quick reflexes that prevented Lily's lunge from plunging the blade into Raoul. He grabbed the girl and pinned her to him, despite her furious struggling.

"Leave us, boy," he snarled. "Leave, or I'll run that blade through you myself! Have you not done enough?"

Raoul seemed to hesitate for a moment, his eyes fixed on Lily. Then, he hung his head slightly, turned and left them.

He could not remember the next few minutes very clearly afterwards. Somehow, he had managed to bring them safely back to the hidden passages, down to the gondola that waited to ferry them back to his home.

He paused before stepping into the boat, staring down at the wig and mask he still clutched in his hand. A few tears unwittingly slid down his face and onto the smooth white kid leather.

He almost didn't notice Lily standing before him. But when he looked up, he saw her eyes upon him, and he winced. He knew that she saw the monstrosity that was his deformed visage. But he was shocked to see no disgust, no horror in her eyes. No, there was not even pity in her gaze.

She moved so that she stood before him. She placed her hands on his face, both the ruined and the good sides. And she kissed him.

He returned her kiss, the accoutrements of his disguise slipping unheeded to the ground. He crushed her body to his, tears slipping down his cheeks so that they tasted salt in their kiss. Lily molded her body to his, her arms tight around his neck.

"Lily," he murmured raggedly, lifting his lips from hers. "How can you? I am a monster!"

Lily shook her head vehemently and pointed upwards, as if to indicate that those above them were the monsters.

"What am I to do with you?" he asked, a rueful, bemused smile tugging at his lips. It was said only half in jest. Raoul's words echoed in his heart still. Lily needed someone to take care of her, to give her a life – a better life than one lived in the hidden darkness under an opera house.

But Lily's sly and shy smile told him that she had other ideas about what he could do with her.

"Out of any of us, you are truly an angel," he whispered brokenly.

Lily rolled her eyes and grinned, and kissed him again.

And this time, he knew that he would let himself go where his desire took him.

* * *

**A/N: I know, a very fast update, but this was just burning my brain, and I couldn't wait to get it out...but don't think I'm done being evil yet. Let's just say I'm setting up for bigger and better evil things like twists with cliffies...**

**Yours in mishcief,**

**Kate**


	10. A Prayer for the Dying

He had always been absolutely certain that if he was ever on the receiving end of the miracle of being with a woman, he would never be able to sleep, that he would pass the entire night in a kind of profound ecstasy, memorizing each moment to sustain him for a lifetime. 

As it was, he had fallen asleep almost immediately, as naturally as if he had done this every night of his life and expected to continue to do so every night of his life.

His mind wandered as his eyes reluctantly opened. Before his conscience was fully awake, he allowed himself to indulge in the pure pleasure of remembering the physical act between himself and Lily. He recalled each fevered caress, the way her warm, lithe little body had seemed to mold itself perfectly to his. He remembered the flavor of their kisses and the look in her eyes.

Then, as the unfortunate sun rose in a sky he never saw, his conscience asserted itself. What had he done? But once the first pang of panic had passed as he struggled to find an answer, the question seemed to change on him. What _had_ he done?

His first reaction was that he had betrayed Christine. But several breaths later, he realized that one cannot betray someone who doesn't believe you exist in the first place. Besides, a little niggling voice had told him, hadn't she already betrayed him first by pledging her love to that boy?

He turned the thought over and over in his mind, considering it carefully before he even allowed himself to turn his head and gaze at Lily, whose soft breathing announced that she still slept peacefully.

No, he realized. There was no betrayal on his part for what he had done. Christine, too, was somehow innocent of betrayal. The thought struck him forcibly, making him suck in his breath.

The sound made Lily stir next to him. He marveled at the peaceful expression on her face. In all the nights he had secretly stolen into her room to watch over her, he had learned to tell her dreams from the way she slept. This was the first time he had ever seen her sleep so contentedly. There was even a small smile on her face. It made him smile.

But the act of smiling made him suddenly and painfully aware that there was no mask rubbing against his skin. Instinctively, his hand flew to his face. The movement startled Lily out of her sleep. She blinked a few times, like a kitten awakening from a nap, before her eyes focused on him.

He saw that she noticed the hand covering the ruined side of his face, and he cringed, preparing himself for the recoiling in disgust that he knew was coming.

Never in a thousand lifetimes would he have expected her to gently remove his hand and replace it with her own hand, gently stroking the mottled skin of his cheek with her thumb. He was even more dumbstruck when she reached over to him and kissed him.

It had to be a dream. Perhaps he was still asleep. A woman had made love to him and still loved him in the morning, when the light of passion was no longer there to diffuse the awfulness of his visage.

"Lily," he whispered in awe.

Lily grinned and replied by playfully tugging at his lower lip with her teeth and snuggling her bare body next to his.

"What are you doing?" he asked, suddenly petrified by the contact between them.

Lily quirked an eyebrow and pulled him to her, desire evident in her eyes.

He could no longer doubt, only surrender.

Some time later, Lily, who had been lying with her head on his shoulder and tracing lazy patterns on his chest with her finger, suddenly tapped him to get his attention - as if it could have wandered from the angel in his arms.

She patted her stomach, which obligingly growled.

"Hungry?" he asked with a smile. It still felt odd to be without his mask, but he was slowly getting used to the idea that Lily saw him no differently with or without it.

She nodded vigorously.

"Thank God," he said with a small laugh. "You still don't eat enough, you know."

She pouted.

"All right, all right, let's go and get you some food," he replied, unable to help grinning.

It was shy work to rise and dress in front of each other, as intimate as they had been under the covers. But he managed it, turning his back so Lily could dress as well. As she dressed, he wandered back over to his organ and shuffled absently through the sheaves of papers with snatches of melodies and arias written on them. He found himself smiling quietly, wondering at his sudden good fortune.

A sound - not from his bedroom alcove - caught his attention. Instantly, he was alert, wary and ready to dispense with any intruder who was foolish enough to seek the lair of the opera ghost.

"Where is she!"

The voice belonged to that damnable boy, and he was seized with the sudden urge to reach for that Punjab lasso. But what stayed his hand was the appearance of Madame Giry with the boy.

"Raoul has told me that you are keeping a girl prisoner here," she said quietly. "You cannot do such a thing. It is not right."

He growled, panic and rage reddening his vision and robbing him of speech.

"Lily! Thank God! Are you all right?" Raoul said suddenly, rushing down the stone ledge to get as close as he could.

He glanced behind him. Lily now stood at the entrance of the bedroom alcove. Her face was white, as white as the knuckles that clutched at her skirt. He felt a small flickering of hope at the sight of her narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils.

"Lily, come with me," Raoul pleaded. "I will take care of you."

Lily didn't move and continued to glare at the boy.

"Why are you doing this?" Madame Giry asked softly, coming to stand beside Raoul, then moving past him to approach the organ.

"She is here by her own choice," he hissed.

"Is she?"

Madame Giry's words cut him as sure as any knife, planting the evil seed of doubt within his heart. How could Lily be here of her own volition? He was a monster, after all. True, he had cared for her, and she had been grateful.

Then the awful thought struck him. Had last night been a repayment of sorts? Was that her way of showing gratitude and not love?

"Tell me, even if she was here by her own choice," La Giry continued in a quiet tone of reason, "What kind of life can you give her? Living in hiding with a man who is not supposed to exist, never to see the sun?"

She paused and put her hand on his arm.

"Do you truly love her?" she asked.

He knew that it was a loaded question. La Giry knew of his infatuation with Christine. But he knew now that it had only been that. An infatuation with someone who had not run away from him.

But she had not run away because she had never seen him. Not until last night. And then, how she ran...

"I do," he whispered.

"Then let her go," La Giry said.

He could see the sympathy in her eyes for him. He knew in that instant that the ballet mistress was not there to destroy him, but to help him. A strange kind of help that broke his heart.

"Let her go," she repeated. "Let her be taken back into the world where she can be helped and cared for. Raoul will make things right for her. He will set her up with a house and an income so that she will never want for anything."

He stared hard at La Giry. What she said began to sound more and more reasonable and right. He could not condemn the woman he loved to live in darkness, to exist in the shadow of a man who was a ghost. If he loved her, truly loved her, he would want her to be happy. He would want the best for her.

To keep her was selfish. His love for her had redeemed him, and now it was time for him to repay her. His heart and his body protested that she could be happy with him, that he could give her the love she needed more than gold.

He turned back to look at Lily, who stood still and white as a statue...a beautiful statue. And he realized that she would not be without love for long. Her goodness, her beauty would bring her a good man with a whole face who would love her for all her days.

He felt as though he was dying inside as he steeled himself to make the ultimate sacrifice.

"Take her," he growled.

Those words were all that Raoul needed to dash past him and grab Lily. He could not look back at her, dared not meet her eyes. But he heard the sounds of her struggle, and the awful, mangled screams that were all she could manage without a tongue.

He barely felt La Giry's sympathetic squeeze on his arm. Everything was fading into darkness around him. His love...his love...

His love was gone.

It only took a few moments for him to be alone again in the darkness of his lair. And it was when he was finally alone that he sank to his knees and finally broke down.

He cried for his love. He cried for the price of his redemption. He cried for the empty life that lay before him.

And for the first time he could remember, he prayed.

He prayed that Lily would be happy.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you again to all my reviewers. Reviews make my day! If you like my writing, you might be interested to check out my books - yes, I'm a published author, LOL. **

**In particular, I have a book out called "Portrait of Desire." It's the story of a young woman in Paris, 1901. She is a painter with no interest in love, until a mysterious stranger comes to teach her that life, love and art are inseperable. If you are interested, check it out atSiren Publishing (just Google Siren Publishing, and it'll take you to it...or you can visit my website, which is in my profile). It's the first in a three-book trilogy called "La Belle Epoque."**

**And no, this is not the end for Lily and Erik. But it ain't gonna be easy. And the title for the chapter comes from one of my favorite songs, "A Prayer for the Dying" from Seal...**

**Yours in mischief,**

**Kate September**


	11. No Good Deed

For many days, he had simply felt like dying. Hunger and thirst held little sway over his despair, and when he was not lying in the bed that he had shared with Lily, he dragged himself over to the organ to play long, meandering and mournful improvisations.

He tried to take comfort in the fact that Lily would have a good life, that he had given her the only gift he was capable of truly giving. But righteousness was a cold and lonely business, he found, and he could not help but wish almost every moment that she was back at his side.

He had ceased to visit Christine or to give her lessons. She did not matter now. No one mattered. Nothing mattered.

The sound of a firm, purposeful step woke him with a start, and he realized he had passed out on his organ. Instinctively, he felt for his mask, still reassuringly in place, then jumped from the stool, ready to strike.

He nearly did strike when he saw it was La Giry, making her way down the ledge into his lair. She was carrying a heavy basket and a worried expression on her face.

"What do you want?" he snarled. "You are not welcome here!"

"I know that, or else I would have come sooner," the pragmatic ballet mistress replied curtly but calmly. "First of all, nothing has gone missing from the kitchen in days, so I knew that you were probably trying to starve yourself to death and –"

"What does that matter to you?" he snapped.

"It matters because you will need your strength," Madame Giry replied evenly.

He gave a bitter laugh and eyed the woman narrowly.

"And what havoc have you come to wreak upon me now, Madame?"

"I have made a mistake," Madame Giry said simply.

Her words chilled him to the bone, and his sneer vanished, replaced by anger and anxiety.

"What do you mean?"

"Evidently, Monsieur le Vicomte's idea of taking care of Lily and mine were not exactly in harmony," Madame Giry said with a burst of her own bitterness. "I had assumed that he would see to it that she had a small income, a flat, perhaps a position in some shop or other."

He could feel his nails digging into his palms, and the pain was the only thing that kept him from seizing the woman and shaking her.

"But instead, he simply made her a servant in his home," Madame Giry continued, her own voice tight and angry. "And not even a parlourmaid. Lily is their scullery maid!"

Madame Giry walked over to his desk and set the basket down, unpacking the food in it.

"And to think I had trusted that boy to have some sense, some feeling of obligation and decency," she muttered. "But between working in the scullery and fending off the advances of Comte Philippe –"

"What!"

The word exploded from him. A fine red mist clouded over his vision, and his throat was dry from blood lust.

"How did you learn all this?" he asked in a remote voice, as if he had already resolved to kill the boy and was merely asking out of passing curiosity.

"I went with Meg to visit Christine," she said. "Christine and the boy are married now. It happened not long after the ball, very quickly and very quietly."

"Hang Christine and the boy!" he roared, some small part of his mind unable to comprehend that it was he who was saying that. "Where do I find Lily?"

"I will tell you that when you have had something to eat," Madame Giry replied firmly, gesturing at the plate of ham, bread and cheese.

"Damn you!"

"As you like, but you'll eat before I give you a single direction."

* * *

And so it was that an hour later, he was crashing through the Parisian dusk on the back of trusty Cesar, with his destination clearly in his mind – the estate of the de Chagny family. He would get Lily back, come hell or high water. And if it just so happened that he killed that cruel young man in the process…well, so be it!

* * *

**A/N: My apologies in taking so long to update. I was trying to figure out just what kind of injustice to make Lily suffer, LOL! I know this chapter is short, but it's really just to set the stage for the next bit of goodish action...**

**And...I already have in my mind the next fic I'm going to write after this one is over...it's gonna be good...you're gonna like it...:D**

**Yours in mischief,**

**Kate September**


	12. Redemption

The de Chagny estate lay well outside of Paris, near the village of Chagny-sur-Marne. It took him the better part of the night to ride out there, and with the coming of the dawn, he hid in the forest on the estate, for rescues by masked men couldn't very well be done by daylight.

Anger consumed him, buoying him as he waited during those tedious hours of cruel sunlight. At times, he dozed, and he didn't fight it when sleep came, knowing that he would need all his energy once night fell again.

Thoughts of Lily, his precious Lily, ran through his head. How could have been so foolish as to let her go with that boy when he knew in his heart of hearts that the boy did not love her? He felt that he had betrayed Lily, even though his own actions had been motivated by the purest, truest love he had ever felt.

Thoughts of Christine flitted through his mind, but only when it came to comparing her with Lily. He couldn't bring himself to think ill of Christine's talent, nor could he blame her really for her reaction when the careful dream he had woven around her came crashing down at the masquerade. But with those few encomiums aside, Christine could not hold a candle to Lily's courage, strength, and gentle heart.

He found himself smiling as he thought of Lily's wit – handicapped by silence though she was. He had never been in doubt of her feelings or opinions, and she had succeeded in making him laugh, and laugh at himself without bitterness, no less!

And Lily had lain in his arms.

She had willingly given her heart, her lips, her body to him. And her love had given him the courage to give his heart, his lips and his body to her. He vowed that when she was safe with him again, there would never be another night that they were apart.

But that line of thinking brought him to thinking of what all those days would be like. He had to admit the justice of La Giry's words that the girl could not live in a cavern by a lake underneath and opera house with a man who did not exist. Lily did deserve better than that.

No, if he truly loved Lily, he would have to find a way to live in the daylight. He had enough money to provide for a lifetime of ease – that was not the worry he had. It was the question of where could they live with both privacy and yet some connection to the world, of how to assume a life of normalcy after a lifetime of being a freak. A small voice in his head said that if he truly loved Lily, he would let her help him find his way in the new life he had chosen.

Twilight fell at last, with dark clouds rolling in, promising a storm. He liked that. It suited his plans just fine. The only thing he worried about was Lily getting wet and perhaps catching cold. But he would hold her close and wrap her in his cloak to keep her as warm as he could.

He approached the mansion, studying it from various angles and determining where to make his entry. There was a wing of the house that was more modest than the others, and he guessed that would be the kitchen wing. His guess was confirmed by the presence of the kitchen garden nearby.

Someone was approaching, and he silently and swiftly crouched down behind a bush. His heart raced as he saw it was Lily – his fair-haired Lily looking so tired, so wan, that it made him want to murder that boy first before rescuing her.

Lily paused, and he could see her stiffen and look around, as if searching for a sound she wasn't sure she had heard. But before he could reveal himself, a harsh, guttural voice called her back to the kitchen.

He was enraged! To have her working so late was criminal! It was practically slavery!

He calmed himself, reminding himself that anger would do him no good in this little rescue, and would most likely only lead to him being caught.

Swiftly, he crept toward the kitchen, hugging the shadows and grateful for the bushes that were underneath the windows. Crouching low, he was able to steal glances at the kitchen where he saw a portly cook settling down to doze by the fire, while one of the footmen and a kitchen maid flirted. He caught a glimpse of Lily, carrying an armful of pots that looked far too heavy for her, toward a small room off to the side of the kitchen. He guessed that was where the dishes were washed.

It seemed like an eternity as he waited for the footman and kitchen maid to conclude their negotiations and retire to some room to conduct their business. But thankfully by that time, the cook was snoring away happily and would hardly be stirred by his silent footfalls.

He entered the kitchen, feeling like some strange, spectral creature stepping into a picture of domestic normalcy. He reached the washing room and beheld Lily, tiredly scrubbing at an unforgiving pot.

"Lily," he whispered, her name like a prayer on his lips.

She froze and slowly looked up. It took precious moments of time for her to seemingly comprehend that he was actually there. He saw her eyes finally well with tears, and the hand that held the rough scrubbing brush trembled.

He rescued it from her before she could let it fall and make a sound. Without another word, he swept her up into his arms, cradling her like a child, and carried her quickly from the kitchen. It was only when they were on the outskirts of the kitchen garden that he finally relinquished his precious burden, setting her down on her feet.

"I've come to take you away from here, Lily," he said softly, reaching out to brush a tendril of pale straw-colored hair from her flushed cheek.

His answer was a hard, questioning gaze that skewered him.

"I…I did it because I love you," he replied miserably. "I wanted you to have a good life, a…better life than what I could give you…I wanted-"

His words were abruptly stemmed by a satisfying little smack of her hand across his cheek. Before he could protest or apologize further, she had launched herself into his arms and was kissing him fiercely, with a ferocious hunger that was seasoned by the salt of her tears.

He was utterly and rapturously lost in that kiss, too lost to pay any attention to the approaching footsteps.

"Lily! Oh my God! What are you doing here?"

Raoul, holding the arm of his lady, the new Vicomtesse Christine, had come around the corner, evidently on an after-dinner stroll through the gardens.

"Release her, scoundrel!" he cried out, letting go of Christine and springing forward.

His hand was on his sword quicker than his mind could process the reasons why he shouldn't kill the boy. He was completely taken by surprise when a little body hurtled into him with such force that it knocked him backwards several steps.

As he caught his breath, he saw Raoul frantically take hold of Lily's left arm and give her a little shake. Christine was crying, verging on hysterics. Lily, however, remained calm in the raging sea of emotions that stormed around her. The sky itself seemed to reflect the turmoil on the ground, with rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning. Rain would come very soon.

She simply turned and _looked_ at Raoul. And for the first time, he perhaps finally understood her silent language. He released her arm, staring at her as if she was some unearthly visitor. Lines of sorrow began to appear on his face. Then, Lily did the unthinkable. She raised her hand to cup his cheek, and she nodded. Forgiveness and absolution for sins he hadn't even realized he had committed.

He saw tears in the boy's eyes, and his anger abated. With a final nod, Lily turned away from Raoul and Christine and deliberately walked over to where he stood. She softly entwined her fingers with his and gave a gentle tug on his hand as if to tell him it was time to go.

Together, they walked back to the secret place where he had tethered Cesar. He mounted and then pulled her into the saddle in front of him. The first few tentative raindrops were beginning to fall as he directed the horse into a slow trot back to the road. The wind whispered secrets through the dusky trees, and the night now felt wild and free as the storm picked up strength.

"Lily," he murmured into her hair. It felt so good to have her next to him again, nestled against his body, secure in his arms. "If you will have me, I promise that I will make a new life for us, a good life."

Lily half-turned in the saddle until she faced him. Her eyes were bright, as if the raindrops had mixed their bit of heaven with her tears. She smiled and kissed him.

And in that moment, he finally felt his darkness and his bitterness lift from his shoulders. His heart had no room for them now. It was past midnight, it was a new day…a new day for a soul washed clean by the rain.

* * *

**A/N: And so it ends, my friends - yet another story where the ending just suddenly announced itself to me. But keep me on your alerts, because I'll be starting my new story very soon! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story. Your words are the encouragement that keep me writing and updating!**

**Yours in fond mischief,**

**Kate September**


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